Rediscovering You
by Mickey3
Summary: That's enough. He can scream and curse all he wants, but I will not stand by and let him hurt himself further because he is to damn stubborn to realize that even he needs time to heal… or to hide from me.


**Rediscovering You  
>by Mickey<strong>

Status: Completed 3/31/2012

Season: PreSeries before Jack's imprisonment in Iraq

Pairings: Jack/Sara

Archive: Ask first.

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for fun ONLY. No copyright infringement intended.

Word Count: 1,751

Author's Notes: Written in response to the stargatedrabbles list's challenge #130, Inspiring Verse - "I get the joy of rediscovering you."

* * *

><p>I sigh in frustration as Jack slams the door behind him -I wish he wouldn't do that, it's a custom made sliding door and very expensive to replace- as he storms out into the backyard. He's been home for three days now and still refuses to let me hold him, or to see him naked. Anytime I try to get him to open up to me he either storms off, like he just did, or he's gotten angry and yelled and cursed at me.<p>

I'm getting far too use to this….

This isn't his first time coming home wounded. In his line of work I'm sure it won't be the last either. Since joining Special Ops, it has gotten a lot worse. He used to at least tell me a little of what he did on a daily basis, a little about his missions -the parts that weren't classified. Now, when he's home and I ask I get almost nothing out of him other than "It was fine", or "Nothing much happened", or something along that line.

Now, I get nothing but silent glares or blank looks.

It's been two years since he joined Special Ops and he's already been shot once, on just his second mission at that. Just last year he had a parachute mishap that landed him in hostile territory, injured and alone, and had taken him nine days to get out of. That I _know_ of, he's been captured and tortured, badly, twice. The second time was about two weeks ago. He spent four days in a hospital in Germany before he was considered stable enough to travel. Then he spent another six days at the Air force Academy Hospital before finally being released. Which didn't help his mood any. Jack hates hospitals.

I finally got to see him two days after his return to the states. Even after a week, the bruises still stood out in stark contrast on too pale skin. The doctor had given me a rundown of his injuries, in vivid detail, that day. Bruised ribs, open wounds on his back that she was sure was from a whip, electric burns on his chest, a split lip, and a cut over his left eye that took six stitches to close. Not to mention the assorted bruises on his face and the rest of his body.

The doctor's descriptions of his wounds have painted a pretty damn disturbing image in my mind of what Jack went through during his four days in captivity. She was only able to tell me all of this because Jack had been too doped up on pain killers to forbid the woman from telling me anything. Although, small as she is, I get the distinct impression she is a formidable woman in her own right. I don't think she'd be intimidated by Jack. At least, not much anyway. She certainly didn't take any crap from Jack while he was under her care. She never backed down when it came to what was medically best for him.

Jack must respect her, at least a little, because even though he grumbled and griped, and sometimes screamed and cursed at her, he always did what she told him to in the end.

I like her. She is the only doctor he's seen that seems to honestly care about him as a person, an individual, not just another patient. I think Jack picked up on that too.

I wish he would leave Special Ops. I know how much he loves the Air Force, and I would _never_ even dream of asking him to retire, but surely there is something else he can do for them. Jack loves to fly. He's a damn good pilot. At one point, early in his career, he was a test pilot. Why can't he go back to that?

I peek through the vertical blinds. Jack has pulled out the lawn mower -the doctor will have a fit if she finds out, he isn't supposed to do anything more strenuous than go for a _leisurely_ walk- and the gardening shears. I watch as my husband angrily kicks at something on the ground. I don't have to be outside to hear him wince or see his face to know he's in pain as he reaches down and picks the object, a large stone, up and tosses it into the space between our fence and the neighbors.

For a moment, I contemplate going out and trying to talk to him again, or at least try to talk him into coming back inside, but I don't think he'll listen to me. At least not right now.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Twenty minutes later, I haven't moved. I'm sure Jack knows I'm watching him by now, but he hasn't acknowledged my presence at all. Actually, he's pretty much kept his back to the house the whole time. Apparently, he's now satisfied that he has cleared the yard of anything that might damage the mower because he is walking back towards the mower now. I can see the side of his face as he pulls the cord to start the machine. Instantly, he releases the handle and his right hand goes to his chest, clutching at his ribs on the left side.

That's enough. He can scream and curse all he wants, but I will not stand by and let him hurt himself further because he is to damn stubborn to realize that even he needs time to heal… or to hide from me.

He reaches for the handle again, ignoring me even though I know he hears the door sliding open, and I hear a low groan escape him as he yanks it harder than is necessary.

"Stop right there, mister," I yell angrily as he reaches for the cord a third time. "Just what do you think you're doing? Do you _want_ to end up back in the damn hospital?"

Sarcastically, and in true "defensive Jack" manner, he whirls around and just as loud and angrily asks, "What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"

Not backing down, I don't stop until we are standing about six inches apart and state, "It looks like you are being a stubborn, hard-headed _jackass_ who's trying to aggravate his injuries further because he's too _afraid_ to talk to his wife about what's eating him up inside!"

Jack looks well and truly pissed as he glares down at me. "Afraid? What the hell makes you think I'm afraid to talk to you about anything? I'm _protecting_ you!"

Oh for crying…. He can be so infuriatingly stubborn sometimes. "What makes you think I _need_ protecting? In case you've forgotten, I've learned to protect myself quite well since I met you. I don't need a protector, Jack, I need my husband back!" Jack opens his mouth to, no doubt, make a snarky remark, but I'm not done yet and he clamps it shut as I step closer to him and continue to let him have it. "You _are_ hiding. From me, and from yourself. You are so afraid of opening up, of letting anyone see your pain that you hide behind this mask. You bottle it all up inside and just let it fester. You are not a machine, Jack. Eventually, this will all eat you up inside until there is nothing left but anger and hate and fear. When it comes to talking about your feelings, you are a damn _coward_!"

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a low blow, but if it gets him to talk to me then so be it.

It certainly gets a reaction from him.

Jack's eyes open wide, his nostrils flare as he raises his arm in a gesture that indicates he is about to backhand me.

I don't move a muscle. I'm not afraid of Jack. He would never hurt me, intentionally or otherwise. No matter how angry he is with me. In all the years I've known him, he's only raised his hand to me one other time -the last time he came home after being captured by an enemy and I pushed him to talk to me. I backed off and gave him his space that time.

Not this time.

He surprises me when he takes a deep breath, holding his sore ribs, and begins, "I survived. Yet again I managed to live when others have died. I get my freedom and my family back. I get to be home in time to a beautiful and loving wife. But what about you?"

What he's saying doesn't make a whole lot of since right now, but I stay silent and let him have his say. Jack bitterly adds, "You get a sometimes jumpy, often cranky, jerk who's rarely home and can never talk about his work or what happens to him while he's away. You get to worry over when or _if_ I'm coming home, and what kind of shape I'll be in when I get back. You get to pray that you never hear the knock on the door that opens to a man -or woman- in a spiffy dress uniform who starts by saying 'We're sorry to inform you'. You get an emotionally stunted guy who can't open up to his own wife, not because of military regulations or any oath of secrecy, but because he just _can't_ do it. All you get is a bastard with a broken body and a shattered spirit."

Jack hangs his head in obvious shame and my heart aches for him. When will he see that I love him with all my heart? That I knew what I was getting into when I married him, hell when I started dating him, and love him anyway? Sure, it's frustrating when I know he won't tell me about his injuries or the things he's done in the name of God and County out of a desire to protect me from his darker side. Will he ever realize that I accept all, each and every one, of his faults -big and small, accept the darkness in his soul that wasn't there before he started Special Ops and love him despite of _and_ because of them?

Right then and there, I decide it's time for me to make him see it all. I have something very important, special, to tell him, but first….

With a seductive smile, I reach out and gently pull Jack's bruised face closer to mine and whisper, "I get the joy of rediscovering you."

_THE END_


End file.
